Camp Lore - 2. Chapter 2

The street in front of me was jammed with cars. It might have taken a half-hour to drive to the train, and who knew where we could park or how long that might take. But it was only a minute’s walk.

The station, like the houses we’d passed, needed repairs. If I’d been trying to start, I wouldn’t know where. Paint. Windows. Doors. Signs. Benches. Everything looked like it was twenty years old.

Inside, was better. Someone who helped paint the place when he was my age was probably only nearing thirty. But that didn’t matter, because you couldn’t really see very much.

You heard it all first – the rabble. The large, high-ceilinged room was crowded with kids, parents, grandparents, and probably counselors, all trying to get or give information. There were signs on tables, signs on walls, signs on wobbly dowels, but you could barely see them for the people. There were also banners temporarily rigged above, proclaiming the names of camps, and under the banners, people stood on benches, chairs, or even tables, calling instructions and trying to sort the herds. I wanted to be almost anywhere else.

Hell? No, this probably wasn’t anyone’s idea of Hell. It was too damp, for one thing, and my shirt was suddenly sticking to my shoulders. I scanned the banners till I found the one I wanted and kind of half-moved, half let myself be pushed toward it. Below it, stood Bill Linden.

He was easy to recognize from Dad’s high school yearbook, though over twenty-five years had passed. Linden had been an athlete, evidently popular because he was all over the pictures, often half dressed.

“I’m amazed they let you get away with that,“ I told Dad.

“Uniforms were skimpier. You should see your granddad’s book.”

“They weren’t skimpy for the girls,” Mom seemed to complain. “They were ‘modest.’ We wore bloomers.”

“What’re they?” my sister asked.

“You know – really baggy shorts. And ours had connected tops, like jumpsuits, but with short legs and short sleeves. You buttoned them up the front. And they were the worst colors. Sunflower yellow. Aquamarine.. Anything to make us look ugly.”

“It didn’t work,” Dad said, grinning. “You were still hot.”

“Dad!” Laurie joked. “You’re not supposed to say that!”

“Yeah, I know.” He mock pouted. “We’ve all been gelded. And don’t ask what that means. Look it up.”

“No. Don’t,” Mom corrected.

Linden hadn’t changed much. His hair was better cut, and maybe he’d gained a few pounds. But his hair was still dark, and he looked like an athlete. I couldn’t believe he was the same age as my dad.

As instructed, I was wearing a Camp Seneca T-shirt. The woman standing on the floor next to Linden – I later found out she was his wife – spotted my shirt and asked my name.

I told her my last one, because I knew that’s what she wanted. It’s what other people were giving. Plus, I could see how her lists were arranged. “I’m a waiter.”

“Robert?”

“Rob.”

She crossed off my name while telling me which train car to look for. Then she waved generally in the right direction.

I followed part of the noisy crowd out a side door. Almost past one end of the platform was a double engine, and the train it pulled was so long that to reach the other end, I had to walk down temporary wooden stairs steps into the railroad yard. Each car had huge numbered cards in its windows – one card by every door – and some windows had camp pennants. By the time I found the car I needed and took an empty window seat, I was positive I’d made a mistake. Vermont was looking very good.

It’s not that I was afraid of going away. As I said, we’d traveled. And I’ve never had trouble making friends – my parents often commented on how many people I knew.

“It’s easy,” I told them. “You just talk to them. Or listen.”

“That’s the hard part,” Mom agreed. “There’s sometimes not much being said.”

I’d laughed because I thought she was thinking about my best friend. He’s a good guy but gets dumber every year.

In the station, I didn’t even dislike the crowds. It was like going to a Yankee game or to the Garden to see the Knicks. Still, I never liked being considered as only part of a crowd, and that’s mostly why I wanted to leave. I hated being stuck places where what I said, or felt, didn’t make any difference. And that had to be the way a camp was run.

I thought seriously about getting off the train. I could go to New York and stay with one of my friends for a couple of days. A guy I knew was a year ahead of me and went to Columbia. He shared a small apartment off Riverside and wouldn’t mind my hanging out. Once my parents and Laurie left for Vermont, I could go back to our house.

I’d already lost the law firm job – that had been given away. But I had enough gift money to live on and could easily find other work – washing windows, painting houses, mowing lawns. I was sure I could earn enough to match my camp salary.

But when I turned up missing, Linden would have to call my parents, and that would start a mess. First, for crossing my dad’s friend, who was clearly doing him a favor. Next, for doing just what my parents had told me not to do. Finally, for just being a kid. And as soon as I saw my parents – which I was certain would be within hours of Linden’s call – there’d be an enormous fight I could in no way win. It sounded lousy.

So I stayed in my seat, sweating, staring out the window, and watching people push each other onto the train. I considered both trying to wake up fully and simply going back to sleep. It was barely eight, and I’d been up since five. The train wasn’t scheduled to leave till nine, but Dad liked to be early.

After checking around the car, I decided to go to sleep. The few guys there all seemed to know each other and were busy trading what were probably winter stories. The girls, mostly gathered away from the guys, seemed as busy with reunions. And both groups looked just like the kind of kids who’d still need summer camp.

I took off my glasses and, having no shirt pocket, stuck them in my gym bag under my seat. Then I leaned against the window and tried for a nap. It didn’t take long to come.